


Sorry For Laughing

by cristianoronaldo



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 06:06:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9222263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cristianoronaldo/pseuds/cristianoronaldo
Summary: “Do you know how emotionally draining it is to be chill all the time?”





	

**Author's Note:**

> drabble about my faves

One time in, you know you're onto something. You're drunk and crying standing in a narrow hallway, and your mind doesn't know but your tongue has always been ahead, and it's already talking about how you like him so much, you like him so much. When you wake up, you don't remember, and you almost laugh when you hear it because you don't feel that way. Why would your tongue betray you like that? 

+

“I have a problem,” you’re telling your friend at the end of the year. You’re packing up to fly home and thinking about a kiss long past. He doesn’t even say goodbye, but it’s probably better that way. I have a problem. 

+

Things to avoid when you're sleeping with the boy you love: looking directly at him, slow kisses, walking next to him in the rain, smiling around him, holding his hand, thinking. Maybe cut down on that nasty oxygen habit too.

+

The aesthetic of the event: room dark, heavy breathing, fast kisses, and then the energy that slows it down.

The thing about slow kisses is that they're not always like this. There isn't always that indescribable feeling that looks like the whites of your eyes and fireworks right after they've disappeared. Sometimes it's just a slow kiss with too much saliva and too much time to think about everything that isn't going right. But then there's a collision with the right set of lips, and you're in for it. 

You’re kissing slowly, then finally slow to a stop, and he looks down at you, smiles a little, and says, “Wow.” 

+

“I think my problem is that sex is my only source of validation, and I haven't gotten any in awhile, so now I really feel like shit about myself.” 

“You don’t sleep with him for validation. You sleep with him because you love him.” 

You roll your eyes. “Can it not be both though? Anyway, I feel like shit.” You go on talking. You try not to hate him for not suffering. 

+

The things you do to impress someone, to keep someone, to make someone love you. It doesn't work. It never fucking works. 

He’ll say, show me a picture, and you can show him any kind of picture that you like, but he’s still going to crave attention instead of your body, and even if it’s cock-worship that you give him, it’s to be God that he wants. 

+

You’re talking to a friend -- not a him-kind-of-friend, but a real friend, a platonic friend, a friend you don’t love and fuck and want to be with until you’re rotting in a grave. 

“Do you know how emotionally draining it is to be chill all the time?” 

“I don't think that's how it's supposed to be.” 

“Yeah, well, you're also not supposed to fuck someone you give a shit about, but I'm doing that too, so.” 

“Yeah,” he said thoughtfully. “Yeah I don't think that's right either.” 

+

Watch out for the people that can drag you back in an instant. If one second you're swearing you'll never speak again and then you shit yourself the next time he calls, isn't something wrong? 

He answers one text, and you think, why did I ever doubt him. You gotta have a little faith, sweetheart. He always comes through. Except all the times that he doesn’t and all the times he never will. Don’t count the promises he breaks and the lies he’s told. He’s a snake. But, you say lie to me again. 

You’re absolutely miserable and absolutely in love. In your experience, the two are inseparable. 

+

He said, you don't take anything seriously. And you said, I'm sorry for laughing. It just hurts less that way. 

I'm sorry for laughing I just can't keep a straight face. 

I'm sorry for laughing I just don't know how to step away from you in a meaningful way. 

+

And the problem is that you always wonder about love and how it slips away. Does he still love her? Does he still miss her? Is he disappointed in your shortcomings and wishing for hers? Does it ever really slip away at all? 

They still talk all the time, and you wonder if he’s ever going to move on, if he even tries. It’s not your business. You’re just half-in-love. 

+

Then you think you're just kids exploring a spark, touching tongues in the dark, rolling away and laughing until your sides hurt equally, and there's magic in that shared pain. You think, wow, and then he breathes it, and you wonder if you dreamt that, if you're dreaming this, if loving is dreaming only. 

So frustrating, you can't just talk it out. No matter how much you rant to your friends or how hard you tell yourself Not Again, he says come over and you ask when. He says love me and you ask how hard. He says fuck me and you do it slowly. 

He's a snake. You say, lie to me again. You say, Tell me when and how hard and let me fuck you slowly. Stay over and don't let me wake you in the morning. Kiss my forehead when you leave and I'll rub my bleary eyes in disbelief. 

You’ll touch your lips where he kissed you and swear you can still see God. 

I love you, you say, but it's a joke, and sometimes you're sorry for laughing. Maybe if you had just tried, if you had just showed a little more clearly-- but no, you loved clear enough. 

The summer was hot and lovely, and you remember how hot and lovely his hands were against yours when your fingers finally succeeded in touching. He’d tried all night, you could tell, but you were laughing, and you were scared, too scared to meet him halfway, so he had to do it all himself. And now, after all the Frustrations that should have been Angers, you look back on the sweet summertime innocence and wonder why your hands were shaking and breathing was so difficult. Just in and out. Just make them stop shaking. Touching is normal now. Fucking is a three-times-a-week icebreaker. 

And if fucking was all you had, you’d say, fuck me harder. Like normal. Same old routine: You open the door to your dorm, and he walks in with an unreadable expression, and there’s something in your stomach that resembles nerves but isn’t nerves because you know this too well -- you don’t get these nerves with this kind of familiarity. You turn around wordlessly and walk up the stairs, and he follows and laughs and jokes around: 

“No hello? Hello,” he says, talking to himself, “How was your day?” He’s doing an awful impression of you, and you roll your eyes. “It was good,” he says, answering in his own voice. “Thanks for asking.” 

“Shut up,” you tell him, and you open the door, and then he walks into your room and suddenly the place is his, just like you are. “What’s up,” you say flatly, or something like it. “How’s it going?” 

He rummages through your things, and you let him. 

And he’d say something like, “Alright, come on, let’s get this going” or “Take your clothes off.” And something demeaning like, “Did you fuck some other dude last night? Your room is a mess. Come on, hurry up.” 

And these nerves don’t go with this kind of familiarity, but you’re always frozen just for a moment when he makes these kinds of demands, not because you don’t want it but because you just need a moment to gather yourself, but you never get it, and you’re never gathered. You’re just sort of laying there scattered, even when he’s fucking you, he’s just fucking you scattered. 

Lost in that feeling, you don’t always feel so in love, but then he bends his head to kiss you, and there it is again. You think, fuck, maybe if I kiss him right, he can be mine forever. Maybe if I fuck him better, he won’t go. 

The truth is that he doesn’t wrench himself away in the most awful way, so you can’t even blame him. Can’t even hate him. He always says, I hate sleeping in your bed. The mattress isn’t right. And you fight over that for a moment, and he says, walk back to my room with me, and sleep with me there. 

No, you’ve always said no, too scattered to find a way to follow him and not be pathetic. 

+

You’re out with your friends, and you’re drunk, and you lean back a little with vodka on your lips, and you say, “I hate it, but there’s this boy I love.” 

And your friend looks at you and says, a little sadly, “You love him?” 

You nod, and you feel like crying. 

You’ve known it’s true for awhile. Why run from that feeling. Isn’t it better to say, yeah, I guess I love him a little bit then to run, run, run until the only way you can get your feelings out is a dry-cry on a drunk night when he’s latched onto someone else.   
+

Think back to the beginning. The very first conversation you remember. Laughing and joking around, and suddenly you could see everything he was thinking. Was there something even back then when he was taken? He used to tell his friends to fuck you because he couldn’t. 

You need to ask yourself would you go back. Would you go back and love him then if you knew that you were going to love him now? Or would you turn around and bury yourself in someone else. If, knowing this feeling, you would turn away, do you love him too hard or not hard enough. 

+

He’s at the foot of your stairs, and it’s snowing outside, and you stop for a minute and you both smile because it’s been awhile. “Hey, how was your Christmas?” 

He walks up a few steps and stops in front of you and touches your hand, and he says, “I missed you.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” you laugh, but there’s something within you that regrets not just admitting that you missed him too.

**Author's Note:**

> jk it's about my life


End file.
